The Things We Wish We Knew
by Paradoxically
Summary: The tale of Alice and Jasper's first meeting in 1948: There has never been a couple like them before, and never will be again. Future tales of the two to follow.
1. Introduction

Introduction

Well, I got a little tired of disclaimers and all of that stuff. I could never remember what it was that I was supposed to remember to put into them when it came time to write them. So, I'm taking care of all that right now. This is going to be boring: Feel free to skip it. Unless you want to beta this story, in which case you can skip to the end

The stuff that matters:

This is the story of Alice and Jasper, told from their first meeting as I picture it. As more information about these two is revealed, it is possible that this will not be a canon-compliant story. For now though, I'm going by the information provided by Stephenie Meyer, much of which is presented at the Twilight Lexicon, and my own conjectures and wild imagination.

I like readers: I also like reviewers.

Logistical Stuff:

At some point in time, this story will contain multiple spoilers. Either deal with it or don't read it.

Disclaimer: This is only a tribute to Stephenie Meyer's work. I'm not making any money—if I were, I'd be writing a lot more than I already do.

IMPORTANT:

All of my gratitude goes to the user Daimios, without whom the first two chapters of this story would be nothing more than mediocre. And if you haven't read her work yet—you're missing out.

Plug: As of this moment, I do not have a beta for this story. I really need one. If you'd be willing to help me out, please send me an e-mail or PM.


	2. Among the Bell Ringers

Chapter One- Among the Bell Ringers

I sank down beside the moldering gravestone: a worn and decrepit angel surmounted the granite block, monument to some dead and long gone soul.

How morbidly appropriate. Here I sat, one of the forever undead, keeping company with the departed. My thoughts took a macabre turn—visions of Maria and her family waltzed through my head, tainted with a vivid scarlet shade that repulsed me, even as it enticed. That way of life was as dead as the human way: the only mementoes I possessed of either looked strange, incongruous in this day and age, piled at my feet. An old saber and a violin, or fiddle, depending on who you asked, in a battered case splattered with something that looked suspiciously like old blood, made up most of the luggage I carried. The only other thing was a single bag of clothing, hastily thrown together: I had been desperate to leave as soon as possible. Maria said I was stir-crazy: I knew it was something more than that. An overwhelming depression had descended over me, stifling any enjoyment I might have once had in this life: A burning need to either end this life or find a better had ravaged my soul, fire consuming reason and logic, leaving me only the desire to escape among the dead ashes.

A chill breeze ravaged the graveyard, disturbing the small bronze bells that accompanied every grave. I shivered as I remembered what those bells were for: It was not unheard of for someone to be buried alive, even in this year of 1948. Vital signs were hard to monitor and mistakes did happen. Thus, a small string was run from the interior of the coffin to a small bell aboveground; too many coffins had been unearthed with grisly scratches carved into the lids for them to continue to assume that the dead were resting in peace.

With deft fingers, I loosed the latches on the case of my instrument, my means of some distraction: I did not want to think of death, or my own state. Instead, I drew the bow across the strings with a practiced hand, listening carefully for discordance. The strings answered my ear with a clear note, perfectly in tune. That was the advantage of using the same instrument for over eighty years; they knew me as well as I knew them. The sweet tone that resounded in my ear relaxed me: it had always been able to do so, even after the heat of battle. My men had not thought it odd that their Major was a musician: it was a sign of our sophistication-- another sign that we would surely win out the war, for how could we fail when we were clearly superior? Much good that opinion had done us: my comrades' bones lay in shallow trenches-- unfit to be called graves-- scattered all across the nation. And here I was: the sole survivor of the Civil War.

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. I applied the bow to the strings again, calling the spirits of my brothers-in-arms to me: at a time like this, I could believe in such things as ghosts. Perhaps they would take me with them, to whatever Hell or Heaven they now occupied.

A chill crept up my spine: someone was watching. I played on: a new tremor danced through the strings. My hands were shaking, as they never had before. I had faced down death dressed in Union blue, waltzed with the devil's own wife by name of Maria, and never yet experienced such a sensation. Still, I forced my hands to manipulate the instrument, refusing to acknowledge any change or weakness. Perhaps this was how it felt to have the Maker of all things call one of his creations to oblivion: my wish of just a moment ago now seemed imbecilic, rash in the extreme. Could it be that I still wished to live?

The wind rose: the bells pealed more loudly. Still, among the noise, my sensitive ears caught yet another noise: footsteps.

My heart sank from its place in my throat to its normal residence in my chest: It could only be the grave keeper. No one was foolish or young enough to be traipsing through the graveyard at this hour of the night. I stood, prepared to deliver words about traveling through town, ready to unleash my talent on the man. Or, perhaps, to make a meal of him: thirst had begun to parch my throat. Even as I turned, my mind made the connection that the footsteps were too light, too feminine. Maria.

No, not Maria. She was too selfish, too caught up in her own desires, to have pursued me here. Instead, my eyes were met by a thin wraith: her pale face gleamed in the darkness. Her eyes were shadowed by the veil that hung from her hat: a dark coat and set of gloves cloaked the rest of her body. Obviously a woman of fashion: what was she doing in a graveyard, of all places? I felt irritation welling up in my stomach. I was obviously a curiosity to her: Her eyes had appreciatively raked my frame up and down, a pleased little smile turning up her beautiful lips. I bowed, violin still in hand, making the gesture a half-concealed insult: _I_ had no appreciation for being looked at so. Her quick eyes caught the implications of the gesture; her nose wrinkled in an amused expression as she seated herself on the edge of the very monument that I had been leaning against. Her every movement was intrinsically graceful; I caught myself staring as I beat down the strange desire to take up a position next to her. The impulse to growl dwelt behind my lips, barely controlled: anger at her bewitching beauty, and how easily I was caught in that snare. But didn't instinct scream at her to flee, before she became my next meal? Every other human had sensed the threat of death, my… different nature.

Another gale ripped through the yard, setting the bells into cacophonous discord and blowing her scent full into my face: I could feel my pupils widening when I caught the icy undertone to the glorious fragrance that made my head spin. She was of _my_ kind. My mind finally comprehended the strange, glorious beauty in that pixie-like face: she must have recognized the thoughts passing through my mind, for her face turned up to mine with a rueful grin. Then, her gaze became glazed and far away: she was lost to me. Her body began to tremble. Instinctively, I put a hand on her shoulder, concentrating carefully on making her feel relaxed and secure. A previously unknown concern gripped my stomach: _Why did I care about this stranger?_

I closed my eyes, trying to banish the warring feelings inside me. Wrong had never felt so right: And yet, it had to be _wrong_. _I _could not be touching happiness at this very moment.

The brush of cold flesh against my face startled me; my eyes flew open to find her visage bare inches away from my own, her hands braced against the hard angles of my cheekbones.

"There are so many things that I wish I knew. And there are some that I do know, beyond any shadow of a doubt," she whispered, her soft gazing holding mine. The soft scent of her breath in my face drew me closer to her, effacing all thought. I slid my free hand from her shoulder, over the gentle arch and curve of her bare neck, dwelling on the soft sensation of her skin as my hand came to rest underneath her chin. Her eyes shone with implicit trust, shadowed by the same nervousness that I seemed to feel. That tender look, the wondering amazement I saw there gave me courage; I tilted her chin upwards, brushing my lips carefully against hers. Her hands slid behind my neck as our lips met again and again: I knew then what I had been searching for, what it was that I had never been able to find anywhere else.

What it was to be complete.


	3. A Visionary Soul

Chapter Two—A Visionary Soul

Time had taken its toll. I refused, now, to fear the darkness: it may have been the only thing that I ever known in the life before this, but now it was trivialized by so many more important things. And, even in the depths of the night, there were the stars, glorious, glowing beacons of comfort hung in the heavens that my eyes were continually fixed upon this night, as every other night. A consequence, and the downside, of this immortality: sleep was not possible.

I shrugged on the coat that had been draped over the single chair in my small apartment—it was more for show than for any warmth it might provide. I settled the small hat perfectly atop my head and arranged the light, short veil to fall across my eyes, wondering if taking an unplanned jaunt at this time of night was worth it: there were always prying eyes, nearly always paired with gossiping mouths.

I caught the roll of my own eyes in the mirror: I was being stupid. I had clearly already decided to go forward with this little excursion, for some unknown reason, and no visions of---

The view of my room was replaced by one more somber: a graveyard, glowing faintly with light cast from a nearby streetlamp. I could feel my eyebrows crease together as I tried to take in every detail: there might be something of importance here. It was clearly in the depth of night, the graveyard familiar, as it was only a few blocks from here and one that I frequently passed on my late night walks. Suddenly, something moved in the depth of the shadow: sweet, plaintive notes drifted on the breeze, accentuated by the ringing of small bronze bells. I gasped, seeing myself, exactly as I was now, standing on the verge of the lot, one hand poised on the closed gate: Would I go in?

I came to myself suddenly, casting about with my eyes nervously: I was again in my own room. Why did I feel as if destiny itself had pricked me? Something in the air whispered to be careful…

My usually vibrant spirits were suppressed as I glanced in the mirror again. Why did I seem to know that, from this night hence, something would be very, very different? The path was set; I would not turn back.

I held my heels in my hands as I slipped from the window and on to the fire escape, monitoring the street below for any signs of life. I was in luck; no one else was foolish enough to be out at this hour in the dark alley below me. A soft smile curled my lips upwards in spite the anxiety that I felt. And yet, I could not silence the soft voice that asked, over and over again, "Why?"

With one quick leap, I was in the street below and demurely slipping on my favorite pair of shoes, looking exactly as a lady should. Well, how one would look if ladies were accustomed to rambling walks in the dead of night.

The heels of my shoes clicked softly on the pavement, yet the sound was loud in my sensitive ears. It was odd to see the town empty, the shops closed-- even the saloons. And then, before I knew it, I was poised on the threshold of that very cemetery. My fingers plucked at the bars softly, peeling the flaking paint from them. Indecision entered my mind: there were no visions to guide me from here, no voice whispering kind directions in my ear. Instead, there was only the soft beckon of a melancholy violin, the tintinnabulation of bells over graves—and an unmistakable presence in the dark.

My eyes found the stars, bright even through the soft interference of streetlights. A chasm was slowly opening at my feet; I could leap over now, to the new world at the other side or remain where I was, frozen in a life of continual half-truths and the eternal struggle against overpowering instinct. My eyes closed, I unlatched the gate, hands shaking slightly. This was it. This was the beginning of the rest of all time.

I followed the sound of the music, ringing in my ears like a siren's call. A gentle breeze caressed my face, lifting the veil that crosshatched my vision. A peculiarly enticing scent, somehow both reminiscent of a winter's day and the crispness of a forest in a high summer, entered my senses. My mind reeling with knowledge: whatever waited there, in the depth of the darkness, was a vampire.

My eyes widened, and I waited desperately for a vision to grip me, to guide my next move.

And nothing came.

The visions, my curse and my gift, were not there.

They were not coming—I'd lost my eyes in the darkness.

But I had come this far. I would not turn back. I was stubborn—and curious. To say otherwise would be to tell a blatant lie. And so I took a step forwards: a tremor in the music answered my movements. I faltered for a moment, eyes raking the monuments in a desperate search for the unknown source. There! A swatch of honey-blonde hair caught my gaze: small evidence that lent me courage, giving me the strength I needed as I stepped into the invisible current of destiny swirling about my feet.

The wind rose, the bells rang. The music stopped.

I watched his long, lean form unfold, the graceful, wary manner in which he held himself: So careful not to give anything away. He turned towards me; face carefully masked against prying eyes. My gaze traveled up and down his body, noting the sinewy musculature, his strikingly good looks. Increasing irritation curled his lips into a displeased frown: I could feel an answering smirk turn up my own lips. He bowed, a curt, vaguely insulting gesture that amused me. I crossed the few remaining steps to the monument boldly, settling myself against it. His height forced me to look up into his eyes, stained scarlet with the blood of his last meal. Something inside me ached as I realized what he was: something that I could never allow myself to be again. But why did it matter that he was something that I was not? We were only two strangers… weren't we?

A flurry of wind interrupted my thoughts, bursting from behind me: I watched as it tousled his hair impetuously; I caught myself wishing that I could do the same. A change in expression caught me: he looked shocked. I smiled wryly up at him, realizing that he had probably just discerned my true nature: after all, not many vampires had golden eyes.

A thick, familiar haze began to drift in and my muscles drooped under the weight of the future: darkness closed in, the absolute darkness that filled my human memories. I began to shake, overwhelmed by a sense of fear that was not my own; and yet something held me here, in the graveyard, preventing me from losing myself in the vision. For the first time, I felt grounded—secure. I strained my senses, searching for the meaning: at the point furthest from me was a voice. _My _voice, in a strained whisper: "Jasper!"

I came to myself again and a sympathetic jolt of pain lanced through me as I opened my eyes, catching the haunted, desperate expression that danced across his face. Behind that ivory pale mask-- in those violently vivid eyes now hidden by alabaster lids-- dwelt an all-consuming ache. On their own volition, my hands extended, carefully caressing his face. I leaned in, absorbed by his scent, intent on his expression. His eyes flickered open; the knowing depth of them caught at my heart, unraveling the words in my mind and releasing them from my lips in a soft whisper: "There are so many things that I wish I knew. And there are some that I do know, beyond any shadow of a doubt."

In silence, he leaned in, his hand tracing a burning line up from my shoulder, over my bare neck, finally pausing as he took my chin in his gentle grasp. His gaze bored through me, capturing every emotion that flickered through my being in those endless eyes. I felt the slight pressure of his hand, tilting my face up towards him; his gaze was alight with the same wondering amazement that I felt deep within my core. His lips brushed mine, softer than a moth's wings. My hands drifted around his neck, securing me to him, my anchor, as wave after wave of peaceful assurance swept through me.

His lips sought mine again: I smiled. I needed no vision, no premonition, to tell me what I already knew: here, in him, was the rest of my life.


	4. Light

Chapter Three--Lights

I hadn't paced like this in ages—incessantly traveling back and forth in a meaningless track, not getting anywhere—physically or mentally…

It had been hard to think, to do much more than just exist, with her soulful eyes boring into mine. I hadn't known her name, her past, or her intentions and yet there was something undeniable about this situation—I was beginning to fall in love with her.

No, that was insane. Love at first sight had never existed. Lust at first sight, perhaps, but not love. And what I was feeling was so much more than mere physical desire. What she had felt—it was nearly impossible to untangle the threads of emotion: apprehension, joy, complacency, and something else, an echo of what I felt… they all ran into one another.

Her face had still been turned to mine, bare inches between us. The silence was somehow soothing, but I went on to break it anyways.

"Perhaps that was a bit….presumptuous?"

Her grin—the one that I was already thinking of as solely _hers_—crossed her lips and pierced the mask I wore: an answering expression had spread across my face. Her slim hands had slid across my face, brushing at the hair that hung over my forehead with smooth strokes.

"I honestly don't think I would have been able to forgive you if you hadn't done it."

I had laughed—a deep chuckle that I had thought that I had lost in the years spent with Maria and the remnants of her glory—and leaned forward until my forehead touched hers. That close, I could see the many striations of color in her tender eyes through the hatching of that black veil. One of my hands slipped up to her face of its own accord: she had leaned into it, the curve of her cheek fitting perfectly into my palm. Soft wisps of her hair had drifted under my fingers like touches of silk or the slivers of those long-lost dreams that had gone the way of my humanity.

And what if all of this was nothing more than yet another dream?

She was beautiful—exquisite—and so _alive._ I could feel it in our embrace: some force ran through her, something more real than I had ever known…the thought had suddenly struck me that I had no name to call her by.

"Please….please, tell me that you have a name. That you are no dream, no figment of a crazed imagination—"

And I _still_ had no name as I paced under the metal railing of _her_ fire escape. No name, just the trail that led here. Her scent, so soft and delicate, hung in the air here: I knew she lived nearby—there, in that small apartment, the soft gauzy curtains trailing out the open window.

She had smiled at me—nearly smirked, and quoted that damnable line:

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,

by any other name would smell as sweet."

I would strangle the infamous Bard, if only he were alive!

And with that she had left, in leaping little bounds. And I, dazed, dumbfounded, utterly entranced, had stood stock still, words evading me.

Perhaps I was insane—that made sense. After all, I had though that it might be love at first sight. If this were a dream, some phantasm appearing before me…

Perhaps this was my Hell, or my Purgatory. The Lord knew that I deserved it. The atrocities I had committed qualified me for it, that was certain.

I remember what it had been like, trying to recover my memory after the transformation. Hours upon hours, days upon days, spent deep in meditation after I had discovered that it was possible to _remember, _when perhaps I shouldn't have…

I remember Texas, the hot still air, the quick slashing of lightning across the bruised sky. Pride, in myself and that land, had been bred into me, the same as my height and eye color. That same pride, inflamed by the talk and rumors of that Great War Between the States led me to my death. I had enlisted, dreaming of fighting in an alliance that might bring independence to my homeland.

There was to be no such luck for me.

Virginia was beautiful in late April—a soft periwinkle blue stained the sky, touching the tops of the emerald treetops with the softest of caresses. Redbud trees bloomed purple, contrasting sharply with the green of the forest and flowers frothed forth from the rich, loamy soil. It wouldn't be long before it was my own blood staining the petals, watering their fragile roots.

Lee had divided our outnumbered army into two, relying on the bravery of the fiery Southerners in our camp. A mere 60, 892 men, assembled in the field to face over twice their number in Union blue—133,868 foes. Lee and Stonewall Jackson leading against the timid Hooker, in our own territory….but the numbers were still cruelly against us as we took the field at Chancellorsville. Numbers…but not determination, leadership, heart, or audacity. Those would be enough to ensure the Confederate victory, but still, for that battle to be won, many would lose their lives. I would be among them.

The first of May had dawned bright and thick will the anticipation of battle: that nervous energy would dissipate by nightfall, when, blood-stained and weary, the troops would take a brief respite from the work of death, only to be roused at the first sign of daylight. There was no sense of foreboding, only anxiousness as I ordered my things within my tent that morning: death had become too commonplace to be a concern by then. Truly, I thought myself invincible—no threat had yet come upon me, so how could it ever?

The colors of that day are still vivid in my mind—those same blue skies, the brilliant green of the lawn, dotted about with the local populace intent on seeing the battle, as if it were some new entertainment. The air was brisk and chilling; tainted with the death conducted there yesterday. As I try to recall the orders given, the things that I did in response, I find that I have no memory of them—they all blur into one mass, until I find myself arrayed in uniform, among my comrades. The command to fire—aiming the weapon, sighting along the barrel, firing—then charging upon the enemy, heedless of the danger, dress saber tapping my side with every stride.

The resistance the bayonet meets as I thrust it into a Union soldier.

The shock as my enemy falls forward, hands grasping weakly at the weapon.

The smell of his breath in my face as warmth escapes from him in a dying gasp.

His body clings to the weapon even as I pull it free, and another fellow human falls to the ground.

Jab, thrust, and recoil in an endless routine, not thinking about the texture of the flesh beneath the blade, the way that it glances off of the bone, letting it become nothing more than monotonous work.

And then reality intrudes—a face, too close to my own.

His breath in my face, my breath in his, breathing the very same air.

Warmth draining from me, spreading over my midsection.

Stiffness through my abdomen, just to the side, pain shrieking throughout my entire body.

The unavoidable gasp as the weapon is withdrawn, my hands grasping the newly-made wound as I drop to my knees in the soggy loam.

I fell to darkness, and to darkness awoke, throbbing pain obscuring the reality of my situation as a dim shadow labored over me. Glaring lamplight made my eyes ache, dim murmurings pierced my ears—my mouth was forced open, a rough piece of wood jammed between them.

The cloth of my uniform, soaked through and through in my own blood and dried to my skin, was jerked away brusquely, drawing a groan from my lips and breaking the scab over the gaping wound. Fresh blood gushed from the wound as the surgeon's hands prodded and pushed, probing mercilessly.

"He's too warm… has t'be infection. 'And me th'alcohol."

"Is he gonna live? Major Whitlock, isn' he?"

"Yeah, he's Whi'lock. He migh' live, if th' infection doesn' take him. He's th' stubborn one, ain't he?"

"He's one o' th' only Majors th' men like… he's th' only one that doesn' push 'em too far."

I barely registered the dash of cold liquid against my skin until the pain came—burning, stinging fire twisting the nerves in my body, pulling tears from my eyes as my teeth clench the wooden spar and groans creep out around it.

"Shush, sah. Got t' do this, ain't nothin' else for it."

I remember the pulling of the thread and needle, setting together that which had been torn asunder. Darkness twitched at the corner of my sight again, unearthly sounds ripping away at my vocal cords, at my sanity. The last vestiges of consciousness fled with the last stitch, the last words of the surgeon: "There now, sah, s'all done."

The stitches made no difference—a raging infection had invaded my body within the next three days, and I knew. This was close enough to the end, and not the end that I wished. Tetanus had begun to seize control of my muscles, pulling them into seizures against my will: I had seen this before, knew the end that was coming. My body would rebel, muscles seizing until I was nothing more than a strained, mutilated husk of a human being after the pain had driven me mad. Better to die in battle today than here in my sickbed in a month.

I'd never know how I did it: dressed, defied the surgeon and assistants, made it to the battle field. Still, I found myself there, in the heat of the carnage again, dazed and disoriented, but still there, still fighting, until the sickness lit the fever in my bones, sapping my strength and lucidity. By the time that I realized what was happening, I had stumbled into the forest and fallen into the leaf mold, aware of nothing more than that death was upon me for the final time.

I had died, three days in the dying, and awoken again, to a brilliant, burning light in Maria's plantation home. Now, I was awaking again, having spent eighty-five years dead, only finding my light here, hidden away in that tiny apartment.


	5. A Second, Rambling Note

**_A SECOND Announcement from the Resident Idiot (Yeah, that's still me)_**

**The good, great, fantastic, wonderful news--- I'm BACK!! Well, good news for me since writing is pretty much stress relief, but I don't know how much you'll enjoy having me back ;) (See Daimios, I use smilies too:D), especially because I have new story ideas. The bad, cruddy news is this--School's pretty hectic this semester and there are some other things going on that are just more monkey-wrenches in my personal plans. One such monkey-wrench is the aftermath of a car crash I was in --yes, I am FINE (please don't worry), completely fine, just dealing with some anger about it (it wasn't my fault, but it did total my truck) and a little bit of weakness with a knee, which makes running around campus _fun_.(Note sarcasm!) Anyways, that's actually pretty much over with, but it was a major part of why I wasn't writing. But I plan on remedying that. As soon as I stop rambling... **


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